I swallow. Who knew acting classes would be so much like AA?
“I’m here because Stacey—her” —Michael jerks a thumb my way—“is going to be a great actor or acting teacher one day. And I want to support her.”
The nine people in the room burst into applause. One guy on Michael’s right even claps him on the back. It’s clearly the right answer.
“And you, Stacey? You’re an actress-to-be?” Amon asks.
Heat flushes to my cheeks, straight from my belly, covering my neck. Nine sets of eyes turn to study me. I take a step back, flinching under their gaze. There is something so very different about doing well in school to doing well in life.
“I like acting …” I nod. Oh God, kill me. Please? “And so I came.” I offer up a smile. I feel I was forced to come probably wont sit well amongst the acting elite.
Apparently, I needn’t have worried. My answer didn’t sit well regardless. One girl standing opposite me offers up a few tentative golf claps until she realises no one else is playing. Then she stops.
“Okay, welcome. So we’re going to start off with some exercises designed to get in touch with your spiritual side. I want everyone to sit cross-legged in a circle.” Amon instructs, and one by one, everyone plops to the floor in a circle around him. It’s all very Zen, very yoga.
“Should we hold hands?” I ask Michael quietly, and giggle.
“I was getting to that,” Amon hisses. Apparently I wasn’t quiet enough. “Hold hands with the people on either side of you, and concentrate on your energy. Force out the good through one hand, and feel the positive energy being pumped through you with the other; then take the bad through your feet. Our energy is circling amongst us. Picture yourself as a slate being cleaned, a needle injecting the negative from your life. An empty blackboard …”
“Do you think they give this talk before you get a colonoscopy?” Michael whispers.
I can’t help it. I choke on my laughter.
“Is something funny, Miss Allison?” Amon glares at me. I bite my lip. Of course he knows my last name and is using it to correct me. How teacher of him.
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. Nothing at all.
“Hmm.” He shoots one last look at me before blinking, and his eyes are the perfect picture of Zen once more. ”Okay, so now we’re going to work on focusing in on our inner light. For it’s only once we look deep insides ourselves …”
Amon drones on and on, and I drop hands with Michael and Sweaty Palms on the other side of me. Michael leans closer, so close I can feel the heat from his body hovering over my arm. “You’re … having fun?”
It’s all I can do not to snort again. But he did pay, and I don’t want to be rude, so I look up at him and nod. “Mmmmm.”
“Now, I want you to all stand and sing the note deep inside of you, the note that is your very soul,” Amon says, and he staggers to his feet, as if he’s possessed by the spirit of religious clichés. “Reach out to your heart note and sing it; sing it for me.”
We all stand, and then one by one, people are drop to their knees, humming weird, unharmonious notes that jar against my mind. My stomach lurches, and I clasp it, urging it to chill the hell out.
Michael gives me a look, and I shrug. “Your idea,” I whisper.
He rolls his eyes and dramatically falls to his knees, clutching his heart as if he has just been shot. I snort.
Amon’s eyes flash open. “Miss Allison?”
“Yes. Sorry.” I drop down to my knees and place my forefinger and thumb in an om-like position.
“Are you searching for your inner tune?” Amon prompts. I’m searching for my inner desire not to barf on your floor?
Silence engulfs the room for several moments. The inner-voice love has stopped. I think I broke the melody.
“Okay, everybody up.” I push up to my feet. I know the small human inside me weighs less than … I search around the room … a piece of chalk, but seriously, it feels like standing with her in me takes extra effort.
Her?
“All right class, Stacey, here, has trouble with trust. We’re going to play the leaning game. Gather in a circle,” Amon says, and students gather in a group that I am the centre of. Interesting.
“Turn around,” Amon says, and I face away from him. Seconds later, a thick piece of material is lowered over my eyes, pressing tight and knotted behind my head.
“You are blindfolded,” Amon says. No shit, Sherlock. “Now, you will lean back, and let the group take your weight. Trust us; fall as far as you can. We will catch you, no matter what. We are here.”
I smile, but it’s all lip, no eyes. What does he mean trust them?
“Just lean back, Stacey,” Amon repeats.
I focus my weight on the balls of my feet and start to tilt my body backward. Surely Michael would catch me, right? I mean, even if the rest of these people won’t—
Why is no one catching me?
My heart leaps to my throat and I stick a foot out behind me, steadying myself and standing upright. I wrench the blindfold off and spin to face the group, my heart pounding erratically.
I can see the disappointment in Amon’s eyes. “Stacey, Stacey.” He sighs. “Let’s try again.”
I press my eyes shut even tighter and cover them once more, trying to relax my lips, which are unnaturally tight, all of a sudden. I can do this. I can.
I lean my weight backward again, my fingernails digging trenches into my palms. I get to the point where my natural balance is lost and I’m falling. I’m falling. Holy shit, I’m gonna hit the floor.
I’m going to hurt my baby.
I strike out with my foot once again, and this time it’s not just Amon who sighs. I’m no doubt about to win the Favourite Class Member award.
“Come on, Stacey.” Amon’s hands plonk down on my shoulders. He smells like garlic and incense. My stomach lurches, and even though I don’t want to be sick in public, being sick on Amon doesn’t sound horrid. I take very tiny breaths in. “You can do this. We will not let you fall. An essential part of acting is learning to trust your fellow troupe.”
He removes his hands and his feet pad back to their original position. “One more time. You got this, Stacey.”
I suck in a deep breath, letting the air fill through my nostrils, down my throat, inflating my lungs. They wouldn’t let me fall. There would be all sorts of legal ramifications … although we did sign a waiver upon entry …
I lean back for the third time. I go past my normal centre of gravity where I feel comfortable, and I’m falling, I’m falling, oh my God, I have to save the—
Hands support my weight. Some are on my shoulders, some are my arms, my waist. One is uncomfortably close to my boobs, but I’m prepared to look past that. I’m safe.
I stand up, shrugging the hands away, and wrap my arms protectively around my stomach. My heart is rocketing against my chest and my breath is coming short and sharp. Do I have a problem with trust? Is that what I was drinking … to run away from?
With one arm still wrapped around me, I wrench the blindfold from my eyes. I spin around. Everyone is smiling, a few people even offering up cheers at my success. Only, I don’t feel successful. I feel like the worst mother in the world.
What if I’d fallen and somehow injured the baby?
“See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Amon takes the blindfold from my trembling hand. “Stacey?” He studies my face, pressing his thin lips together. “We’re going to take a twenty-minute break, everyone.” He claps his hands. “I’ll see you back here at half past five.”
Michael’s hand is on my shoulder, squeezing. “Stace … you all right?”
“Fine.” I face him, trying my hardest to make my face light. Gosh, why am I freaking out about this? It was just a stupid game.
“Let’s go sit outside.” With his hand on the small of my back again, he leads me into the courtyard and we sit on a stone bench hidden in an alcove right near the entrance. Cars zoom past, beeping their horns, and
somewhere in the distance a child sings, some nursery rhyme that does little to lift my spirits.
“You wanna talk about it?” He puts his hand on my leg.
His hand, his hand is warm, and it sends those tingles through my body again. I’m so lost and confused, and when he leans closer, his lips close to mine, his eyes flaming with lust, I give in.
Gently, his soft, full lips press against my own. He smells of cologne and man, and I can’t help but offer a subtle groan as he parts his mouth and delicately runs his tongue over my bottom lip. Sparks shoot through me, and I wrap my arms around his neck, reveling in the feel of his firm body pressed against my soft one.
Our lips come together hungrily, full of desire. He pulls me closer, one hand on the back of my head, fisting my hair as his tongue seeks entry into my mouth. This is no slow, romantic dance; it’s passion, and need and desire all at once. It’s everything I need, though I know I shouldn’t have it. It makes me feel whole.
Lips still furiously locked, I slide a leg over his body and shift my weight, straddling him. I run my hands over his shoulders, feeling his broad muscles underneath his shirt, the way they tense against my touch.
He moves his hand from my waist higher to cup my breast. In my thin sweater, my nipple responds to his touch instantly, stiffening as he fuels my desire. He is so hard that I can feel it through my sweats. I rock against him, lost in the moment, lost in this.
I’ve wanted this for so long.
“Stacey,” he breathes, pulling back. I ignore his warning and learn forward, pressing my lips against his, but this time when I try to slide my tongue in his mouth, his lips are firm. I try again, but they’re unyielding. Nothing.
“Stace.” His hands move to my hips and he pushes me back. I bite my lip. “Stace, do you remember what I told you that time? At the party?”
I gaze up at the white fluffy clouds scudding through the sky above us. Why does it all come down to that stupid party?
“No.” I shake my head.
He breathes and licks his lips. “Well … I’m a virgin.”
I blink. He’s a virgin? What does that have to do with anything? And what his ex—“But what about Hannah?”
“Hannah … God, this sounds so lame. I didn’t want to have sex with Hannah.”
What? He didn’t sleep with Hannah? I think of the short, blonde dancer who even I knew was supposed to be good for her, erm, flexibility in bed. Her pick-up line was ‘I can do the splits.’ If they didn’t have sex, it had to be Michael’s choice. “But …” I furrow my brow. “Why?”
“Because I wanted my first time to be with someone who mattered, Stace. Someone I really liked.”
I nod. So I’m pregnant, and he’s a virgin. Fabulous.
“That’s why I didn’t try anything those last few months at school. Because I knew you were not … you know … and I didn’t think you’d be interested. Plus, I did kind of tell you how gorgeous I thought you were, all the time—”
“But you never made a move!” I pull back.
“You never made one, Stace. Look at you.” He presses his body back farther against the seat and I shuffle my way to his side. I miss the feeling of him beneath me already. “You’re like this freaking babe, who is popular, and funny, and smart—”
“Hah!”
“You are, Stacey. And I’m just this idiot guy in a band who hasn’t even been laid.” He clasps his hands together and leans forward, studying the cracked pavement in front of us. “You never took a chance on us.”
I look at him. I study his dark hair, the lean muscles lining his shoulders, and I know. He is a truly decent guy, who is embarking upon a life filled with truly decent things.
I know that this can be the last time we hang out.
“Look, Michael. Today has been fun” —and your kisses were amazing—“but you can’t keep coming back to see me anymore. You’re in a band”—and have zillions of hot, non-pregnant girls on tour—“and I can’t imagine getting back here is cheap. We should just head home”—actually, also because I’m hungry, and that means I might spew again—“and then we should just, cool it, yeah? You and I … we’re never going to work.”
Because I’m pregnant. You have always been better than me.
And you’re never going to be a part of my world.
The car ride home is one silent hour of torture. All I have to do is look at Michael’s face to see the pain in his eyes; it’s etched for the world to see. It stings knowing I’m the one who put that hurt there, and that it’s mirrored in my heart, too.
Just pretend, Stacey.
Just pretend.
Dear Small Human,
You’ll be proud to know I’m going to cut my sister’s hair, and I’m doing it for you.
During the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about our life together. Where we’re gonna live. How we’re gonna get by.
I know I’ll have to tell Mum and Dad—your grandma and grandpa—soon, and I guess we’ll live here for the first year or so, till we can find a place of our own. In the meantime, I’ll try and find a job, raise some money—and cut my sister’s hair.
I have to.
You’re counting on me.
And God, am I counting on you. Right now, I’m alone. I am so alone that it scares me sometimes, and I just don’t see a way out.
You’re going to change all that.
You’ll love me … won’t you?
Mum xx
December 25
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!” Mum raps her knuckles on the door to my room and I squint my eyes open.
“Merry Christmas,” I mutter. The ceiling above me is white, littered with all those glow-in-the-dark stickers that little kids love. It’s a mixture of My Little Pony and the universe; before me, Shae had this room. It’s not hard to guess which of those stickers belonged to her.
I throw back my ridiculously childish quilt and swing my legs out of bed, whooshing out a deep breath of air as I do. I swallow down my saliva, hoping that today will be a break from the vomit. Thank God I have my own bathroom. Otherwise, I can’t imagine how I’d hide the morning sickness from my over-the-top family.
Before I get up, I reach under my pillow, assessing the packet of Cheese & Onion chips there and the grated cheese in the bag next to it. While I can’t seem to stomach a heap of food during the day, in the middle of the night, I’m craving weird things. After judging the crisps—too crushed to salvage—the cheese—been out of the fridge for at least five hours now, and slightly squishy—and the chicken bone—what? I stole some barbeque chicken and ate that in the middle of the night too?—I throw them all in my trashcan.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, and I reach over to grab it.
Michael: Happy Christmas, doll! Hope you get spoilt rotten. Maybe we could catch up tonight? I’m in town seeing Mum before heading off to Wollongong next week.
I shake my head. God, do I want to. But I can’t. I just can’t.
I delete the text, as I did the other five messages he’s sent me since we returned from Sydney. He’s so sweet, and caring, and perfect. Why does he have to be so goddamn nice and caring when I’ve been nothing but a dismissive, whorish bitch?
I throw my phone across the room. Sometimes, it’s the easiest option.
Downstairs, the house is buzzing. Mum is bustling about in the kitchen, and a mixture of garlic, onions, and some kind of roasting meat comes wafting up the stairs as I walk down. My stomach gives the tiniest of flip-flops, but my food stays in its place and I smile. Small mercies.
On the couch, dressed to the nines and with a full face of makeup, is Shae, with my brothers Sean, Steve, and Scotty littered on the floor around her. It doesn’t matter that Sean and Scotty live out of home—they’re still at our house first thing every Christmas morning. Sean’s wife, Sally—yes, he managed to find someone whose first name started with S—was even sprawled out on the floor, her baby bump swelling.
I rub my own stomach self-consciously. Sally’s no
t wearing any makeup, but her cheeks are flushed in a healthy looking way, and despite the big round turtle she has strapped to her stomach, she doesn’t look as if she’s gained weight anywhere else. I wonder if that’s how I’ll look when I’m at her stage? Will I be the stereotypical “glowing” mother-to-be?
“You’ve put on a little weight.” Shae nods in my direction, and I freeze. Honestly, maybe a tiny bit, but no more than what I would have if I’d eaten a big meal.
I rub my bump again. It’s not even a bump. More like a … slight incline and decline.
Ah, crap. That’s a bump.
“Just been eating lots since school finished.” I shrug it off as if it’s no big deal, but mentally bump up tell family you’re pregnant on the importance level on my to-do list. Because that’ll be a fun conversation.
“Keeping in shape is important,” Sean says. After getting his masters in business and a diploma in physical education, Sean now owns a gym. He should know. “Are you binge drinking, by any chance?” He looks down his long, pointy nose at me, and I smile. We’ve never been close—at thirty-two, he’s a hell of a lot older than me—but he likes to put on a fatherly display every now and then. You know, when he’s not too busy downing protein shakes to waste his open mouth time on talking.
“Not really.” I smile sweetly.
“That is one of the biggest causes of weight gain. It makes you eat the most ridiculous things at the most ridiculous hours of the day.”
I smirk, thinking of the chicken carcass and weird snacks in my trashcan upstairs. “I’d believe it.”
“I’ve been on this new diet. I’m basically going all-natural.” Shae puffs out her chest. “My boss, Evan—the really fabulous one I’ve been telling you about—he’s been great. He even bought one of those microwave ovens so I can cook things fresh.”
“He single?” I smile.
“Has to be,” Scotty chimes in, and we exchange a look. The look that says, “Shae is getting laid by her boss.”
Eleven Weeks Page 10
